A Game of Chess
T
errace and lawn are white with frost,
Whose fretwork flowers upon the panes—
A mocking dream of summer, lost
’Mid winter’s icy chains.
White-hot, indoors, the great logs gleam,
Veiled by a flickering flame of blue:
I see my love as in a dream—
Her eyes are azure, too.
She puts her hair behind her ears
(Each little ear so like a shell),
Touches her ivory Queen, and fears
She is not playing well.
For me, I think of nothing less:
I think how those pure pearls become her—
And which is sweetest, winter chess
Or garden strolls in summer.
O linger, frost, upon the pane!
O faint blue flame, still softly rise!
O, dear one, thus with me remain,
That I may watch thine eyes!